“Yes!” Gus said. “Yes! TAILLIGHT!” Isaac reached for another egg, missed wide right,
then another, missing low, then another, hitting the back windshield.
He then nailed three in a row against the trunk. “Hazel Grace,” Gus shouted back to me.
“Take a picture of this so Isaac can see it when they invent robot eyes.”
I pulled myself up so I was sitting in the rolled-down window, my elbows on the roof of the car,
and snapped a picture with my phone: Augustus, an unlit cigarette in his mouth, his smile deliciously crooked,
holds the mostly empty pink egg carton above his head.
His other hand is draped around Isaac’s shoulder, whose sunglasses are turned not quite toward the camera.
Behind them, egg yolks drip down the windshield and bumper of the green Firebird. And behind that, a door is opening.
“What,” asked the middle-aged woman a moment after I’d snapped the picture, “in God’s name—” and then she stopped talking.
“Ma’am,” Augustus said, nodding toward her, “your daughter’s car has just been deservedly egged by a blind man.
Please close the door and go back inside or we’ll be forced to call the police.”
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